


Exposure therapy

by summerfires



Series: annoying corpse ouma [2]
Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Choking, Grinding, Light Angst, M/M, Making Out, Ouma is an undead corpse/gorey ghost/hallucination/pick your poison, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Game, Survivor Guilt, Unconventional and metaphorical character study if you may, Very Mild Gore, spoilers for v3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26696197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerfires/pseuds/summerfires
Summary: Shuichi blows off some steam and has a therapeutic talk with his frenemy, who happens to be teensy-weensy unalive.
Relationships: Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Series: annoying corpse ouma [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942672
Comments: 11
Kudos: 56





	Exposure therapy

**Author's Note:**

> this is vile and im hörny, sewer slider and projecting af.  
> it’s kinda connected to my corpse bride fanfic, but not really? the same concept. ouma is a living (lmao) corpse who kinda cycles through all the different scenarios of his death (from his actual press one to choking, falling after ch3, etc)

"Do you reckon I have some zombie STDs or something?"

"I mean... not unless you had any when you were alive, I think?"

"Makes sense. Do you think my dick would fall off mid session?"

"What?"

"What?" Ouma absentmindedly unbuttons Shuichi's shirt and grins at him. "Me and Kiiboy would match!"

"Can you not say stuff like that? While I'm on top of you? _Please_??"

The boy just laughs and slips his shirt over his head.

If you ignore the obvious visible signs of the boy being very much dead, Ouma is kinda... really attractive in this very moment. He's attractive in general, but now, laying down on Shuichi's bed, matted hair against the pillow like a halo of deoxygenated blood and bluish skin almost healthily peachy-coloured in the dim warm light of the bedside lamp, he's never looked more pretty and alive. Not to mention that being spread on the bedsheets is a good look for Ouma - not that he'd look bad on top, though. 

"A-are you sure you're comfortable? Isn't this a bit too... closed-in?" Shuichi has his arms planted on both sides of Ouma's head and he's almost straddling him, essentially trapping the boy underneath. 

"Exposure therapy," Ouma gives a crooked smirk, contrasting with how his cold fingers gently and lovingly graze and rub at Shuichi's cheeks and earlobes. "I just need something warm and non-metalic on top of me once in a while!"

"That's, uh..."

"Just kidding! Though it does feel... _nice_ like this," he laughs, but his voice is whispery, like he's scared or embarrassed of saying that. "Nice" doesn't seem to be exact word he's looking for - that would probably be "shielded, protected, safe", - but he can't bring himself to be vulnerable even in death. Shuichi hums understandingly and leans down to press a chaste kiss to the side of the boy's mouth, tasting coppery blood. Ouma shifts closer to him, unconsciously chasing the warmth of an alive body. Dry blue lips find Saihara's warm ones, and their arms wrap around each other. Ouma hisses into the kiss, any touch scalding hot on his ice cold flesh.

The room is quiet, safe for Shuichi's lone ragged breaths and rustling of the sheets. Kokichi experimentally runs his tongue over his partner's teeth and nips at his bottom lip, eliciting a vague hum in an automatic response. They break apart with a wet sound and the living boy gasping for air.

"What are you thinking so hard about?"

"Just thinking about how I'm either making out with a corpse at best, or hallucinating it at worst," Saihara runs his hands down his partner's sides and softly squeezes the boy's thin waist, almost to apologize for getting distracted.

"Why is hallucinating the worse scenario here?" unblinking dark eyes staring into his own. The survivor swallows nervously. The dead boy doesn't need to blink, which is undoubtedly unsettling, but having such undivided unwavering attention on himself in such an intimate setting gives off... very mixed signals. It's romantic in the worst, most depraved way possible.

Something in Shuichi's chest pangs both in guilt and delight. He bites his lip and looks down, somewhere on his partner's pale still chest, above protruding clavicles and choking marks on the neck. Corpses also don't need to breathe, and the distinct lack of the chest rising and falling grounds the realisation of what they're doing. What he's doing. He's holding and kissing a rotting corpse of his dead friend- no, not even friend. Rotting, falling apart, perpetually suffering antagonist, staining his sheets in blood and grime.

Really, why would he rather it actually be a zombie or whatever, and not a product of his sickened mind?

He doesn't want to lie - god did he do that aplenty back in the game - but he's not sure he himself even knows the truth.

"Because I'd like it if it really were you here with me." finally a meek, uncertain, lame answer. Ouma sighs loudly, air pushing harshly through the damaged windpipe, and hugs him. Either he doesn't crack it as a lie - is it a lie? - or ignores it for the sake of their both calamity.

"You're so cheesy, _love_."

"So I am," Saihara whispers. "Love" has such a nice ring to it. It fills his head and lungs with the fluffiest medical grade cotton, soaked in blood and purulent drainage and tears. It makes him both lax and antsy, and he has no other relief but to embrace his partner tighter, until he feels the bones straining and almost cracking. " _Love_."

"Smo-o-oth. It's okay, I'm here. You're literally breaking my bones right now, so I'm real."

"S-sorry."

"No, no, hug me even stronger, _crush_ me."

Saihara doesn't have time to think about the implications, as Ouma wraps his legs around the taller boy's waist, and presses their pelvises together, causing a sharp gasp.

Corpses can't get aroused or feel pleasurable stimuli - Kokichi says he can enjoy their little rendez-vous in different ways, not necessarily physical. It's nice to think that the boy...likes him? cares for him? is desperate? enough to crave emotional closeness, but, at the end of the day, he's basically letting someone who always defied and rejected him now use his body. 

Isn't it tragic to only finally find some kind of pretend reciprocation in death?

Shuichi tries in earnest to make this feel heartfelt, impactful, whole, finished, unlike that time in the gaudy love hotel delirium, unlike their whole relationship from the moment they set their eyes on each other back in the demented killing game. His roommate's- his lover's? flesh already lacks the springiness that someone alive his age should have, but it's still firm enough and nicely smooth to the touch. Skin still smells and tastes like skin, faux detective notices absentmindedly as he carefully presses wet kisses against Ouma's throat (the _fingermarks-_ ) and bare shoulders and upperarms (he's glad tonight's death of the day is choking, and not the _poisoned arrows,_ or he would've crumbled under the mental toll that the events leading up the the fifth trial took on him). He leans back up for another kiss, and Ouma's arms fly up to cling onto him like a lifeline.

"S-Saihara-chan, beloved," Kokichi stutters in between the quiet wheezings of his trachea. He's suffocating without ever needing to breathe.

Shuichi's fingers dig into the soft decomposing flesh of the boy's thighs, and he looks up at him a tad alarmed:

"D-did I do something- Do you need to stop?"

"No, no, you're fine. Let's try something out?"

"I'm listening?" Shuichi relaxes a bit and starts rubbing gentle circles into the soft skin under his palms.

"Put your hand on my neck."

Saihara's instant reaction is to try and jerk away, chills running up his back, but the corpse tightens his hold around the friend's- the lover's shoulders.

"C'mon, remember? _Exposure therapy,_ " an attempt at laughing comes out in sobbing painful rattles. "Jeez, beloved, I'm not asking you to choke me, just put it there. Please?

Shuichi carefully puts his palm around the thin neck, barely touching it, almost hovering above the skin surface.

"Love, you're not gonna kill me _again_ ," Kokichi giggles hoarsely and covers the hand with his own fingers and gently presses down. Shuichi squeaks indignantly, but doesn't release the hold, freezes, unsure of what to do next. The undead wheezes (an attempt at a dramatic sigh gone wrong) and says something sweet, sickly sweet, that doesn't quite get through the white noise in Saihara's head.

_At least it’s not a noose or toilet paper._

Carefully and slowly, he starts rocking into the smaller boy's hips, aroused haze overtaking him once more. 

Ouma looks incredibly good with a hand on neck, and it's the most disgusting and nausea-inducing thought he's ever had. Fitting for someone who had repeatedly sentenced his friends to death and volunteered to participate in a fucking killing game.

"You could squeeze it harder, love."

"I, uh..."

"God, Saihara. Choke me harder. An order from a supreme leader, if you will."

And Shuichi obliges, because he's sick in the head, probably.

He presses his palm harder, trying to go more for the arteries than the trachea, and feels the muscles and tendons constricting in his partner's throat, and he swears he can feel the boy's chest raising and falling. There's no rational way why he'd suddenly gain the ability to breath, so Shuichi must be seeing things. Isn't he seeing things in general? An undead Ouma Kokichi, it's hilariously bad on the scale of realism!

Why would real Ouma-kun just let himself be used like this, why would he come to you, the executioner to his martyrdom?

Kokichi coughs wetly, blood bubbling at the back of his throat and spilling out of his thinned lips. 

"Hey, Saihara-chan," the corpse whispers, voice dripping with adoration and honey. "I'm dead, right?"

"H-huh?" Shuichi's hips stutter.

"I'm D to the E to the A to the D. And you're choking me-e. But did you kill me, or was I dead even before you laid the hand on me?" he's panting, barely able to get the sounds out of his crushed throat.

"O-Ouma-kun..." there are tears threatening to spill out of the greyish gasoline eyes.

"Answer the question, love."

"Y-yes, you were already dead...?"

"Exactly," the body pulls itself up, whispering directly into the detective's ear. "You literally have your hand around my throat, yet you have nothing to do with my death. Guess what I'm hinting at?" 

"I s-shouldn't feel guilty?" it's moral derangement at it's finest, that he is still chasing the horny high, as a thanatomorphosing victim to his lies and incompetences is having a psychological pep-talk with him. It’s definitely a twisted mirage of his brain, trying to fix itself where therapy failed, trying to coerce the guilty consciousness into its unsteady sleep.

"Correct, love," the undead kisses his forehead, and it feels to wet and cold and real to just be a hallucination or a ghost. "You're not guilty of my demise, or anyone else's."

Is he not guilty, though? Is he really? Or is Ouma actually trying to soothe his own inner turmoil, projecting it onto the protagonist? They’re quite the two peas in a pod.

Shuichi chokes out a sob and releases the boy's neck to gently card through his hair. He's close, so disgustingly, viciously close.

"That's it, love, c'mon, come for me."

Shuichi's not sure if he finishes first and then breaks down crying, outright weeping, or his orgasm finds him already in tears, but he's curled up on his roommate's- friend's- lover's- victim's chest, ugly sobbing and heaving. Deadly cold hands tenderly pet his head and massage the nape of his neck. Their owner stays silent, as corpses normally do.

"What was that whole... choking and guilt thing for?" he mumbles into the crook of his partner's neck, cool and soft, _tangible_.

"Exposure therapy!" Ouma winks at him. "Call me the Ultimate Supreme Therapist!"

**Author's Note:**

> idk how to write smut, im a bottom
> 
> the beloved to love shift is supposed to be meaningful, but idk, it’s literally zombie smut
> 
> also consider, the father, the son and the holy spirit: zombie prostitute by voltaire, sex with a ghost by teddy hyde and ghosting/arms tonite by mother mother


End file.
